


liquid courage

by wormguts



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Alcohol, Attempt at Humor, Banter, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bisexual Jason Todd, Bonding, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce and Jason actually talking about shit instead of being insufferable assholes, Coming Out, Cute, Drinking & Talking, Explicit Language, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason has a potty mouth, Jason schenanigans, M/M, Oneshot, POV Jason Todd, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts
Summary: Batman, a zombie Robin, and an emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne walk into a bar...or: Jason and Bruce share a few drinks and revelations are made.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	liquid courage

Fuck.

“Jason.”

 _Fuck_.

He feels the low rumble like a shot of electricity through his chest. Even though he expected Bruce to stumble in on him sooner or later—was counting on it, even—he still jumps like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

“What are you doing here?”

 _Hah_. Bruce’s tone is both as cold and impersonal as it was the last time Jason had the misfortune of crossing Batman’s path. The only missing elements are a few dozen corpses, a vat of acid, and Batman himself. But that has more to do with the fact that Bruce wasn’t expecting him than any lack of planning on Bruce’s part.

Like a man bewitched, Jason props his boots on Bruce's desk and grins, the message clear: _nobody but us here, old man_.

The cool indifference of Bruce’s stare doesn’t shift even under Jason’s careful watch. It sends shivers up and down Jason’s spine.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he offers.

Bruce’s eyes narrow. “This is my office.”

“Oh, shit! Really? I had no idea.”

A sigh.

“What are you doing here?” Bruce demands. His tone is laced with a mild kind of irritation, like Jason is merely an inconvenient bug he’s about to squish under his perfectly polished shoe.

It makes Jason’s stomach flip.

He doesn’t let his mask slip, though. He forces his body to relax, schools his expression into arrogant disinterest, and very pointedly _doesn’t_ drop his feet even as Bruce glares pointedly at them. He allows his gaze to travel from Bruce’s shiny work shoes, past his untucked shirt and rumpled tie, and up to rest on his time-worn face.

Then gives his best shit-eating grin and says, “Drinkin’.”

Judging by the downward curl of Bruce’s mouth, the man isn’t happy to see him in his office at two-thirty in the morning. Why Bruce is coming home looking sex-mussed in the middle of the night really is a wonder, but Jason isn’t stupid. He was counting on that, too.

Bruce’s stare could re-freeze the icecaps. “In my office?”

“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ the way Bruce hates and eases into the familiarity of their old dance. He raises the stolen bottle as an offering. “It’s been a while. Why don’t ya join me, old man?”

He expects Bruce to brush him off, tell him to get the hell out of his liquor cabinet, something along those lines. Instead, Bruce stills like that was the last thing he expected Jason to say. He regards Jason with guarded, calculating eyes, his face stony.

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says.

Jason chortles. “I’m barely even buzzed!” A lie. The room spins with every blink, but what Bruce doesn’t know…

“Hn.”

“C’mon,” Jason encourages, wiggling the scotch in the air, though he doesn’t know why. Drinking with Bruce is a stupid fucking idea. Probably one of the stupider ideas he’s had in the last few years—and that’s saying something coming from the family fuck-up. All he needs is even lower inhibitions on top of zombie Robin’s latest dry spell.

To his surprise, Bruce doesn’t throw a batarang at his head and pummel his face in—though he does snatch the scotch away from Jason’s sticky hands with a muttered, “Sober up.”

Jason finds that hilarious for some reason.

Bruce frowns. “Stop laughing. You’ll wake Alfred.”

“What, afraid he’ll spank you?” Jason knows it’s a low blow. He blames the alcohol.

The comment rolls off Bruce’s back like water. “I’d prefer to avoid _that_ conversation,” is all he says. To Jason’s surprise, he settles on the desk in front of him. Not that he’s complaining. Just. Fuck.

“What you doin’ coming home at this hour, anyway?” Jason asks. “And what’s with the…” He gestures vaguely.

“Meeting,” Bruce says.

“At two-thirty in the morning?”

Bruce side-eyes him with a frown. His mouth stays a firm downward line.

“What lucky lady was it this time? Reporter? Journalist? A blonde?”

Bruce full-on glares. Jason howls with laughter.

“It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t what? A blonde? Didn’t realize you had a type, B.”

“A woman.”

“Well that’s—”

Jason stops.

Fuck.

 _FUCK_.

He has to grip the arm of the chair to steady himself. He thinks his face scrunches up in an only slightly embarrassing grimace but it’s hard to tell over the earth tilting on its axis. 

When he chances a glance up at Bruce, the man almost looks _satisfied_. Like he knew those two words would have this exact effect on Jason. Jason suppresses a full-bodied shiver through sheer force of will.

“Oh,” he finally manages. It’s suspicious as all hell. But fuck it. How the hell is he supposed to react when his former mentor and father figure tells him he just got done boning a dude? Christ. “That’s…”

“I’m kidding, Jason,” Bruce murmurs, suddenly quiet and calm and collected while Jason sits there reeling like an idiot.

“What,” Jason says weakly. He feels the sudden oncoming of a migraine.

By accident, or maybe a cruel twist of fate, their eyes meet over the lip of the scotch as Bruce takes a generous swig. His lips come away wet and shiny and Jason watches his tongue dart out to lick them.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Bruce amends, giving Jason a pointed look.

“Not subtle at all, old man.”

“Who said anything about subtle?”

Jason just grunts. Bruce passes the scotch back, and Jason occupies himself with gulping the burning liquor so his face will stop… whatever the fuck it’s doing that’s so amusing to Bruce.

“You know,” Bruce says conversationally, “I’ve fucked a man before too.”

Jason promptly spits all over Bruce’s desk, down the front of his shirt, and probably on Bruce too. He bends over and coughs up his lungs before he can see if Bruce has fared any better than him. What the fuck? 

“Who just _says_ shit like that?” he rasps. “Let alone _you_.”

“You’re an adult,” Bruce says, like that explains anything.

“Yeah, but—what the _hell_ , Bruce?”

The man chuckles softly, clearly entertained at Jason’s expense, but he doesn’t reply. Stealing the scotch from Jason’s shaking hands, he takes a substantial helping, eyeing Jason carefully.

“…Why didn’t you say anything? Y’know, before. When I… when you found out I’m bi.”

God, _that_ disaster was mortifying. Try coming out to Batman in the worst way possible; naked as the day he was born, frotting against a literal pool boy in a shed (cliché, he knows), then tell him he’s being dramatic. Even thinking about it raises gooseflesh all along his forearms. He rubs at it absentmindedly as a flush spreads up his neck.

“I didn’t think it was the time.”

 _“Didn’t think it was—?!”_ God, this man is infuriating. Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and groans in exasperation. “Bruce, it’s about the _solidarity_ , man. If I’d known, I woulda—”

_I would’ve known I maybe had a chance._

He shakes his head, dispelling that ridiculous thought. Yeah, he was a sappy romantic at sixteen, but can you blame him? He was living with _Bruce fucking Wayne_ in his rich ass mansion in such close proximity he couldn’t jack it in the shower without the man knowing about it. Fuck, does he have any idea how many times Jason fucked his fist thinking about him? Jesus.

Anyway. The point is, that fuckery was bad for his health, both physically and mentally, and probably for his libido too because he can’t get off without his traitorous brain conjuring images of Bruce’s thighs, his calves, the way sweat glistens on his chest, his fat tits, his—

Okay, maybe he’s feeling that alcohol now.

“Bruce, my guy,” he starts slowly, as though conversing with a goldfish, “please tell me you told Tim, at least.”

Bruce stares at him blankly.

“Steph?”

“…”

“Of course. _Of course!_ God, you are hopeless. A kid comes to you, baring their soul, and you don’t even _say_ anything!? How would you feel, haah? I thought—I thought you were disgusted and—and, I don’t know, _ashamed_ of me. You barely spoke with me for a week after you, uh, found out. And like, that’s old news so I don’t hold it against you—well, now, at least—but please tell me the others didn’t have to go through that. I know you’re awkward as hell, but. But support matters, okay?”

By the time he’s done, he’s red-faced and out of breath. He glares at a few documents scattered over Bruce’s desk (now sufficiently watered, will they grow big and strong if he sets them in the window?), his skin too tight for his bones. He finally straightens properly, steel-toed boots _thunk_ ing against the floor. Well, fuck. This didn’t go as planned.

Ah, who’s he kidding. He didn’t have a plan when he barged in here, bent on getting a rise out of Bruce for the hell of it. Why must he be so damn impulsive.

When he looks at Bruce, his face appears to be cycling through the five stages of grief.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says like it pains him. Jason’s eyes bug out.

“Uh, don’t sweat it.” Bruce never apologizes to Jason. The fuck? “Guess you can only be better in the future, yeah?” He tries for a laugh, but a weak little wheeze is all that crawls out of his throat.

“If I knew it would have helped, I would have… told you.” Bruce’s face contorts. Apparently, talking about sexuality is hard for him. Who would’ve thunk. “And I wasn’t avoiding you, after I found out. I wasn’t ashamed, either. You have to believe me, Jay.”

Pulling out the big guns, are we?

Jason swallows and it’s loud in the quiet room. “Yeah, well.” He rubs his neck.

“I’m not the best at this sort of thing.”

“Oh, really.”

Bruce huffs. “You’re making this harder.”

“You know what else I could make harder—”

_“Jason.”_

“Fine, fine,” Jason laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t have a death wish. It’s fine, B.”

Then, softly: “I believe you.”

Bruce doesn’t _beam_ because that’s physically impossible for him, but his lips twitch upwards, so Jason will take it. He finds himself smiling too.

“So…” he says conspiratorially, “who was the lucky broad?”

**Author's Note:**

> kinda ambiguous but eh when am i not being ambiguous, right?
> 
> tell me what ya think! i feed off comments :]


End file.
